Potent
by layersofsarkney
Summary: After Sark makes a brash decision to desert the Covenant, he flees with an unconscious Sydney in hopes of forging an acquaintanceship. Sarkney & R for language and content. Final chapter uploaded.
1. the Beginning

Disclaimer: All characters associated with Alias© do not belong to me. They belong to J.J. Abrams and the writers and producers of Alias©.

**P o t e n t**

The Beginning

xXx

_I will be the answer at the end of the line._

He has learned to accept the state of filth of which his accommodations are in. It's a gesture of sympathy from the CIA that permits him to keep a pillow and blanket. Although neither could compare to his flat's thousand-dollar bed set, he's regrettably thankful. After the four hundredth night of isolation, the cell becomes frighteningly cold.

The weeks pass by on their own accord.

The times when he's given the barest of moments to contemplate his own sanity are the most painful. He can picture the agents placing bets on how quickly he'll 'lose it', but unknown to them, he has his own twenty-four hour companion… his own reflection. But nonetheless, it keeps him sane during the bitter evenings.

His internal clock has completely shut down. Now, he only knows of meal times and lights out. He can't wait to feel the sun again, knowing that his release from the detention center is soon. The first thing he plans to do is sun bathe.

The unanticipated sound of footsteps leaves his insides mangled and void of emotion.

Another excursion down Memory Lane with the highly sophisticated crew of doctors and their good companion, shock therapy, no doubt. Just a quickie before he's sent off. He pulls his legs up towards his chest and rests his arms across his knees.

Lord, if you are listening… 

The prayer is instantaneous and his messiah glides through the prison door, stopping before his cell.

_Mr. Sark, I wanted a word with you before you get traded._

He convinces himself that the woman before him is an illusion brought on by his medication. Her sympathizing expression, her graceful step and her eyes—the only eyes other then his own that make him flinch. She is authentic, existent—factual, even—and such an observation might have brought any other man to tears, but not Sark. Her being is the faint glimmer of hope that he seeks. Where ever Sydney Bristow treads, trouble is not far behind.

_Dear God, it can't possibly be you._

He climbs off of his bed and out of his fetal position, walking towards the glass walls. He tries to remember the details of her face, the angle which she tilts her head and the tightness of her expression. _This_, he tells himself, _is the closest you'll get._ She narrows her eyes and pierces through his frail framework with a glare hardened by years of chaos.

_Don't start this conversation by acting surprised._

She isn't amused by his sudden interest, but she never was to begin with. As much as she resembles herself before her disappearance, he senses the difference. She's been knocked out of the loop for two years and as soon as he's released from his shackles, he'll realize that he has been, too.

She puts her hair in pigtails and tries to cheat herself into believing that her innocence still exists. Instead of uncovering her naivety, they humor her captive. She can tell he finds amusement in her preadolescent rituals by the way he briefly smirks when they make eye contact. Sydney ignores his criticism. After all, one can't understand something one has never experienced.

_I assure you, this organization, The Covenant, is as much a mystery to me as it is to the CIA. I can't imagine why they'd want to make this trade._

She kneels down to unlock the manacles around his ankles, which are cold to the touch. The steel cuffs are warmer than his skin and it disgusts her. She glances up towards him, utters a brief comment of nonchalance and continues to distract herself with his shackles.

_My life's in danger, isn't it? _

She turns up to look at him again, hears the satisfying click of the lock and stands up. There are no answers that she can say that would satisfy her craving for both punishment and fulfillment. He understands her dilemma and averts his gaze.

They climb out of the van together and await the arrival of their associates. He stares at the yellow horizon and the trail of dust that the pair of Volvos make as they weave back and forth along the dead panorama while she speaks into her hand-held radio. She receives approval from Dixon and turns towards her captive.

_You're up._

She can only compose a witty rebuttal worth two words—possibly the last two words he'll ever hear—but the meaning is clear and he swaggers forwards. Even in the face of danger, he has a knack for appearing casual, if not suave. For a moment she appreciates his urbane style and cocky attitude but the emotion blows away with the arrival of the Delta Force's helicopter.

_I will be there for you while you take your time._

_Put the collar on me._

Her interventions are predictable and if Sark had the opportunity to glance at his watch, it would prove his previous wager with his conscience correct.

Sydney Bristow, offers to be the sacrificial lamb at approximately two o' clock in the afternoon, check.

He clutches onto the cardio-toxin filled collar for what seems like an era before Sydney pleads again. _She's only thirteen._

Sark doesn't need to be reminded twice about her age. His plot had never involved Dixon's daughter—only Sydney's consistency of volunteering to be the hero—but his reputation for being Machiavellian is on the line.

He eagerly plays the role of the villain and finally consents to Sydney's request. If only his eyes weren't hidden behind sunglasses—Jack could see the extent of his amusement.

_In the burning of uncertainty, I will be your solid ground._

She can feel her father's glare gouging out holes in the back of her skull—but Sydney Bristow always has to do what's right, it's in her nature.

His strut is obnoxiously slow, but so long as Robin remains in the arms of the assailant without the toxin-filled collar, all is well. She holds her breath when he reveals the collar and places it to her neck. He secures it slowly, as though fascinated by how his hands can so deftly fasten the band, then takes a step back to examine his handiwork. Pleased, he premises the release of Robin.

_As always, it has been a pleasure doing business with you._

Sydney scrutinizes his crooked grin and debonair manner while he scrutinizes her unperturbed attitude and blank expression. Regardless of what either does, the other remains unaffected. The realization that their relationship is an undying paradox begins to surface—but the arrival of a third party breaks the tension.

The moment is broken by her father's overpowering urge to throttle Sark to death. The sig is blinding when placed at such an angle beneath the sunrays and for a moment, she swears that Sark's stunned. Not for long, of course.

_Before you consider taking any drastic measures, you should know that if I release my grip on this remote, the toxin will automatically go into your daughter's bloodstream. A failsafe, if you will. As I said, you have two minutes._

Leave it to Sark to plan for her father's bursts of rage. The tension mounts as he climbs into his car and departs from the exchange point. Only seconds separate Sydney from another close encounter with death.

_I will hold the balance if you cant look down._

He pulls off his sunglasses and tosses them to the side, ignorant of whether the three hundred dollar accessory breaks. The remote in his hand holds more interest, for the time being.

He glances into the rearview mirror and watches Jack rush to save his daughter from peril. He sneers at the display of fatherly love and releases his grip on the remote. Then clenches it in his fist again. With a sigh, he tosses the device to the ground and stares towards the road ahead. Once again, his reputation for being the villain holds more importance then his reputation for being sympathetic.

xXx

_If it takes my whole life, I won't break, I won't bend._

Reykjavik, Iceland

The comm's line crackles with static as Sydney rubs her lips with chap stick for the tenth time. She glances down at her quaking hands and tucks them into her anorak's pockets.

"I can't believe we're doing this based on Lauren's intel," she murmurs to Weiss.

"Well, if Mike trusts her, then maybe we should too. Her intentions are good, Syd," he replies. "Now if you'll excuse me a sec—nature calls."

A gust of wind blows into the van as Weiss opens the back doors. He turns to grin at Sydney before jumping down into the forming layer of snow. She shakes her head and turns to stare at the monitors.

"Marshall, we're freezing our asses off—could you fill us in on what's going on?"

"Syd—hey, whoa, Syd. Syd—Syd, Syd, Syd, Syd—"

"Marshall! I'm right here."

The other occupants of the van cautiously glance towards her, dark bags pulling down tired expressions and sleepless masses of flesh. She stares back at the cluster of the living dead, defiantly pillaging through another wakeful evening of perpetual surveillance.

"Syd—looks like we have incoming. Three vans—I think the one in the middle's carrying Hehorya—they're led-covered vehicles and so I can't—can't really, y'know, see through them. If I had to guess, I'd say that they're carrying some heavy artillery. After all, three vans, that's a lot—you can carry all sorts of things in three vans—firepower, computers, bodies—"

"Marshall, you remember what we talked about?"

"Oh—right, yeah, rambling, okay, gotcha', I'll just—get off your back now, well, not literally, you know what I mean—I'll tell you if anything weird is going on—"

Sydney closes the communication line before Marshall can finish. The crunch of footsteps in the snow outside suddenly seems of higher priority.

She gestures towards the van's back doors and as she pulls her ski mask over her face, a stark silence falls over the field agents. There's a soft mumbling outside, but through the metal framework of the van, Sydney can hear his distinct European accent. Her jaw's muscles clench with uncertainty. Already she senses a losing battle.

"Sydney Bristow," she hears. "Would you mind stepping into my office?"

"You son of a bitch," she mumbles when she steps out of the van.

"That's not exactly the most cordial way to greet your captor, now is it?" he replies, stepping towards her. "De-arm her."

He watches with hidden satisfaction as his aid strips her of her firearms and weapons, tossing them to the side among the large snow banks surrounding the vans. Her vulnerability is appealing during moments like these—when his confidence is dramatically bolstered to a level it rarely reaches. It's a nirvana that lasts all of five minutes, but fuels his self-esteem for weeks.

His companion steps away moments later, assured that Sydney is no longer armed, but Sark continues to keep a trained eye on her. So long as her limbs remain intact, she's a worse weapon than any firearm.

"What do you want?" she spits out. He clasps his hand behind his back and smirks.

"It's not what I want—it's what the Covenant wants that should be worrying you."

She stares at him as though her patience has worn thin—then delivers a blow to her escort's face. His head snaps to the side before he collapses onto the blanket beneath him. She turns back towards Sark and pulls out the revolver tucked beneath her panty line.

"Where the hell is Hehorya?" she demands, releasing her hold on the safety.

"I hope you didn't think it was going to be that easy," he says smugly. From behind the van, several more assailants appear, dragging an unconscious Weiss with them.

"Poor Weiss—with the way we caught him, I don't imagine he'll be taking a piss alone any time soon," Sark continues with a laugh. "Now, if you don't mind, give me your gun."

She lowers her arm and throws the revolver to the snow in front of him.

"The good news is that you'll remain unharmed until further notice. But the bad news…" he trails off and glances towards the van.

Sydney turns in time to watch as Sark's subordinates riddle the vehicle with bullets. The explosion that occurs soon after is lost to her—a cloud of smoke and snow shielding her from the carnage. She avoids eye contact with the stoical Sark, believing that she'll find herself pleading for sympathy if she isn't careful.

_Integrity is not universal,_ she has to remind herself.

He walks towards her through the ashes, careful that his steps are loud enough for her to hear. She hears him reach into the snow for her revolver.

"If you have a weak stomach, I suggest you keep your head turned away," Sark says.

"What—"

A single shot among the sound of crackling flames and she screams out Weiss' name. She waits for his muffled cry, her eyes trained on the body curled up in the snow. Instead, another cadaver collapses atop his. Sark lowers his firing arm, then turns towards Sydney with a look of nonchalance. She's stunned into silence, her eyes wide with a mixture of despair and anticipation.

The assailants remaining quickly retaliate, hoisting their various forms of artillery with them as they run for cover. Sark throws his body behind the van's debris, giving Sydney the opportunity to escape. She lithely falls to the ground, wrapping her body in snow.

Before she can scramble across the white blanket towards the knolls that surround them, a stray bullet nicks her shoulder, quickly drawing blood. It's a numbing sensation that immediately spreads through her arm. She winces and forces herself to her feet.

The gunfire fades as she reaches the top of a dune of snow, but the biting wind and dropping temperature handicaps her long enough to lose control of her body's movements. She feels the snow slipping beneath her as her legs clumsily collide with one another. The shots cease and she hears her name break the silence. The cry knocks her backwards and she rolls down the other side of the hill.

Sydney pushes herself out of the snow, unwilling to accept defeat because of a minor tumble. She's behind the warehouse in the vacated lot where the other vans should have been. The realization that Marshall's intel was wrong strikes her as predictable. After watching the massacre of her team—again—nothing seems too surprising.

"Ms. Bristow, you've left a rather messy trail," she hears Sark calling from the top of the hill.

She glances at her shoulder and breathes heavily at the sight of her soaking sleeve. The blood is dark red against the thick threads of her black clothes. If it's managed to seep through so many layers already, she doesn't have much time left for chatting. She hears Sark approaching from behind and quickly turns to greet him.

"Glad to see that you're finally accepting defeat—" he manages to say before Sydney silences him with a swift blow to the gut. He stumbles backwards into the mound of snow and groans momentarily.

He quickly responds, though, and pushes himself out of the snow and directly into her. He hears her cough as he successfully knocks the wind from her lungs, a sense of victory flooding over him.

She collapses backwards into the snow, solid black mixing among the images of her father and mother that flash through her mind. Her conscience is fading quickly, but that never stopped her before.

Her last efforts are directed towards the kick she delivers at Sark's legs. Her breathing is hard as Sark falls to the ground onto his back. She struggles to roll into a kneeling position with her heartbeat pounding in her head.

He starts to mumble, his temporary headache quickly fading, but she lurches forward and grabs her revolver from his hand. With her chest pressed against his, she pulls back her hand and pistol-whips Sark into unconsciousness.

"I win," she whispers before rolling off of him.

She squints to keep the snowflakes out of her eyes, but soon, she's closed them and drifts into a slumber.

_It'll all be worth it in the end._

xXx

Author's Notes: As of right now, I've got a shady sort of framework for this story. I think it'll be pretty short—maybe only three chapters, but I don't know, we'll see how it goes. I really liked writing the recap of Succession and Taken. It's nice to get into their heads—even though I wouldn't know whether that's what they were thinking or not—but I'll try my best—from a Sarkney perspective.

The song lyrics are from Sarah McLachlan's Answer.


	2. the Drive

Disclaimer: All characters associated with Alias© do not belong to me. They belong to J.J. Abrams and the writers and producers of Alias©.

P o t e n t

The Drive

xXx

It's the smell of seclusion that disturbs her.

She slowly opens her eyes and enjoys that brief moment of peace before the storm. Her vision is distorted and relays kaleidoscope images back to her mind, slipping glimpses of colors and shapes. A striking blue distinguishes itself from among the monochromatic settings, then vanishes as quickly as it appeared. Her head drifts to the side and hits the car door, forcing a cry of pain from her throat.

 Her vision clears minutely, coinciding with her head's minor collision with the vehicle's interior. With her logic still in pieces, she concludes that the run in with the inanimate object contributed to her current condition. Her head tilts to the side and hits the passenger side window. She pulls back, then lets her skull drop against glass again. The ground beneath maintains the same speed, but arms reach out from the shadows and grab at her shoulders. There's a buzzing coming from the manifestation, but she ignores it. Her world spins around her as her vision regains strength.

Finally, the buzzing becomes a static formed of words that hold no meaning.

"Agent Bristow, I'll have to ask you to stop…"

Stop, a curious word. She contemplates it as she remains inactive, drowning in the plush leather seating of the hovering platform. She's on a space ship, Operation Black Hole's gone off on a tangent and taken her with it. The world no longer holds reason as her hands quake in her lap. The static starts again as her body leans towards the window.

"Shut up!" she screams, swatting at the figure beside her. It's slowly defining itself as time passes. It has a profile, broad shoulders that loom over her when it turns, tall, or maybe just a tall torso, fingers, a whole set of them, and _it_ is a man.

He snatches a hand and fiercely clutches onto it.

"Understand, Agent Bristow, that I will not show you any leniency simply because we're meeting under different circumstances. You are still Sydney and I am still Sark."

And as though he's set off a trigger, the last of her delusions slip away and the only thing that remains is the carcass of a migraine. Its weight is a tragic burden but she forces herself to prevent any further displays of humiliation. She faces forwards, her hand slowly creeping towards her holster. He observes her from the driver's side and realizes that her actions are still weak and drug induced. At least her shoulder had finally stopped bleeding.

"And I should mention—I have removed all firearms from your possession. Be wary of your actions, Agent Bristow, your co-worker certainly wouldn't appreciate it."

Her head snaps to the side at the mention of Weiss. The existence of another person on the foreign plane he's brought her to provides her with the smallest flicker of hope.

"Where is he?" she says, the first real sentence that's come from her lips in a while.

"Getting friendly with his escort and his escort's glock."

The biting sarcasm only adds to the tension between them. She turns her attention back towards the front and for the first time, realizes that they are venturing down a deserted route in the middle of the desert. All she can see for miles is sand and a few scattered mountains.

"Wake me when we get to Irina's," she mutters as her eyes flutter close like the lens of a camera. Sark glances over at her and admires the stubborn streak concealed beneath the drugged outer appearance. He forces himself to return his eyes to the road before him. Irina, he snorts, that's well behind him. There were hundreds of miles to go, or at least however many it would take to convince him otherwise.

xXx

He's racing the sun, following that fading burst of luminosity along the desert's edge. Quite a change from the snowy landscape of Iceland. He booked his last flight on the Covenant provided personal plane several hours ago with Sydney as his unconscious passenger. The pilots had only one question to ask—"Would you like anything to drink, sir?"

"Yes, a glass of wine," he'd said.

There aren't any other vehicles for miles along the deserted highway and he swears that he can hear the sound of the earth spinning beneath him. He hasn't enjoyed freedom quite like this for a while and with the accelerator clamped down beneath his foot, this new feeling is dangerously exhilarating. The needle inches towards ninety miles per hour and as the wind whistles past him, gliding along the smooth paneling of his BMW, he takes a moment to look at his hostage.

She's been sleeping for the past hour, her veins running with morphine and some form of adrenaline. He slows down the car as he sees her slowly awaken. There was no need for an enemy to bask in the glory of his content. That was his own private sanctuary where no one, not even the clandestine Sydney Bristow, could reach.

The speed is back at fifty when she finally wakes up, her immediate reaction that of utter horror. All the events of the past several hours will hit her right about…

"God damn it," she hisses before they make eye contact. Her hand smashes down on the smooth dashboard, but he barely flinches. "Sark, I'm only going to warn you once. Stop this car and let me off right now or there will be Hell to pay."

He returns his gaze to the falling sun, his expression so resolute and unrevealing that she swears it will drive her delirious.

"Agent Bristow—"

"Cut it with the courtesy shit. We crossed that line hours ago when you knocked me out and kidnapped me."

"If you insist—Sydney—I will leave you at the side of the road."

She's surprised by his blunt reply, but before she can retaliate, he quickly cuts her off.

"But let me tell you what will happen once you have traveled the hundred miles back to civilization," he begins. "You will go to a pay phone, you will dial the number of a dependable contact, and you will find that all connections between you and all your former affiliates have been terminated. If you return to the CIA and to Dixon, he will inform you that your allegiance to the department is now under investigation and you will immediately be transferred to the closest correctional facility. If you decide to run, you will become an enemy of the state and an anonymous correspondent will casually inform the CIA of your coordinates."

"You bastard!" she cries out, her hands flailing animatedly before her. "What the hell have you done?"

"I did what I needed to do. Now, if I were you, _Agent Bristow_," he says roughly, "I would stay in the car."

He annunciates each word, carefully rolling it across his tongue before letting it drip from his lips like poison. And suddenly, Sydney's worries about her personal health are a figment of the past. She can wastefully squander away time without agonizing over the consequences for Sark has unknowingly accepted all of them on a silver platter.

xXx

Their combined stubbornness creates the silent atmosphere needed for the remains of the evening. The moon slashes open a scar of light across the desert panorama, riding across stray mountains and irregular dips and rises. It cautiously avoids the dimly lit road and allows the passengers to drive along in pitch darkness. Sark keeps the headlights turned off, so eager to remain covert in even the most isolated of settings.

Sydney turns to look at his profile, illuminated by the moonlight, and sneers. How old could he possibly be? Her age at the least, she hopes. She doesn't look at Sark as the opposition, but the competition. It's envy that drives her to throttle him with the telephone cord, throw pick axes at his limbs and deftly apply any maneuver capable of handicapping him. She refuses to accept second place, especially from a man like him.

The thought of Weiss is the only thing that keeps her calmly rooted in her seat. If not for the risk of placing him into harm's way, she would have thrown Sark onto his back in the middle of the desert, angrily buffeting him until the knuckles of her fists burst. She finally turns away and stares determinedly at the empty road ahead.

As far as he's concerned, right now he's her only fear. He can feel her flinch every time his hands stray from the steering wheel. She hasn't attempted to begin any pointless conversations either. There aren't witty remarks floating around him and in turn, he doesn't need to spend time preparing any. Her apathy is corrosively eating away at him, but that's okay because in a couple of hours they'll be in Oregon and he swears that he'll tell her when they cross the border.

xXx

"Welcome to Oregon," she mutters as they cruise past. He turns to look at her because she's broken the five-hour long silence with three single words. Three single words that truly hold no meaning. But they're the most placid three words he's ever heard.

It's almost four in the morning and the car's fuel is running low. The perfect opportunity to explain the circumstances of his proposition. He turns into the lot of a nearby gas station and parks behind a dark blue SUV.

"Stay," he harshly commands as he opens the driver's side door and steps out. Not the smartest thing to be doing when placed in a situation such as his, but he's slipped through the hands of the Covenant before and he'll just as easily do it again.

As he waits for his receipt, he notices the license plate of the car in front of them. Washington, state, just a tourist returning home. From where he stands, he can see the car's owner. Fiery red hair, cell phone in hand and sunglasses flailing madly about in the other.

He takes his credit card and the receipt and steps back into the car where Sydney quietly waits. Home, he wonders, what impression does a home leaves on one's mind?

He starts the car and feels the engine purr around him. This, this is what home should feel like. Always moving, always humming, quiet and loud at the same time. He turns to look at Sydney, her eyes trained on the pavement slipping away beneath the tires. And maybe a companion—for financial convenience, of course. He guffaws mentally, then waits until the road is empty again.

"By now, you've probably determined the perfidy of my alibi," he says, initiating an overdue conversation. His tongue is slow to form the words, like hinges on gates that need oiling. It's embarrassing at first, revisiting the early years of puberty, but she doesn't notice.

She nods, her brow raised with unconcern, her elbow rested against the door and chin poised atop her balled fist.

"When did you realize?" he asks so calm and cool, as though he's unaffected by this lapse in judgment. She can see through the icy exterior to the man who's trembling inside. Trembling, no, shaking. And he'll soon be curled up in a fetal position, pleading for mercy. She looks in the rearview mirror. The road's empty, except for the SUV that trails behind them.

"As soon as you turned off the road and into that gas station. 'The CIA's after you', my ass. You son of a bitch, I can't believe you pulled that stunt," she sneers.

Sark glances towards her, then furrows his brow and faces the road.

"Agent Bristow, you'll have to take my word, but my plan is not to hurt you," he states, his eyes suddenly darting towards the rearview mirror. "And if you trust me, I'll trust you enough to return your revolver."

Sydney releases a mixture between a snort of disbelief and a laugh.

"You know, as soon as you give me back my gun, I'm going to shoot your dick so far up your—"

The sound of shattering glass quickly changes the tone of conversation from that of casual acquaintanceship to one of severity. The side view mirror closest to her lies in shards across the road, vanishing behind them as Sark pushes down on the accelerator.

"Sydney!" he calls, demanding her attention by breaking down the walls of professional regard. "I need your word!"

Another bullet fires and breaks through the windshield, nearly nicking her shoulder, and the SVU draws closer, riding the car's bumper. She pulls her body towards the center of the car, then realizes the heightened vulnerability.

"Sark, this isn't exactly an easy decision and forcing me into it won't help," she hisses, "But considering the circumstances, I find it necessary that we call a temporary truce until all conflicts are settled…"

Her voice fades off as she sees the butt of her revolver peering out from Sark's tightly bound fist.

"Take it!" he demands, his voice suddenly rough. She nods as she rotates in her seat, then rolls down the window. Sark's foot clamps down on the accelerator and soon, the BMW is pushing ninety.

Sydney leans out the window, gun poised before her in an uncomfortable weaver position. With her rear firmly rested on the car window's edge and her feet tucked beneath the seat, she fires twice. The fruits of her labor reap in the benefits, shattering the windshield and providing the two of them with the fireworks display of the brain's inner workings. She pulls herself back into the car, her hair tousled from the brisk night wind.

She tucks the firearm into her waistband and quickly adjusts her seat belt.

"I'm going to give you from now till Washington to convince me that your life is worth sparing," she threatens as he slowly pulls the car's speed back down to fifty-five.

"I'm afraid we're going to have to make a pit stop," Sark says, his left arm uncontrollably shaking. Sydney glances towards him, then notices the growing spot of red across his shoulder. "It appears that I've been shot."

xXx

He manages to pull off to the side of the road with as much reserve as possible, the carcass of their assailant hours behind them. He refused to stop so immediately after the attack, afraid of any other tails that would take advantage of their minor pause in travel. By the look on Sydney's face, he could tell that she was fairly impressed.

The car finally ceases it's humming and the comfortable atmosphere of hospitality that once surrounded him slowly fades away.

"You've lost a lot of blood," she says without having to examine the wound. Sark opens the driver's side door with his unwounded arm, then slams it shut behind him. He considers making a snide remark about the blatancy that Sydney's just pointed out, but keeps his mouth shut instead. No need to anger the only left arm he has left.

Sark struggles to open the trunk, but a somewhat reassuring body shoves him aside and opens it for him. Sydney finds the first aid kit hidden beside the black suit cases full of fire arms and bills and flicks open the latches.

"Take off your shirt," she demands, but realizes that he's already performed the action.

            He tosses the soiled jacket and shirt into the trunk, twisting his head to the side to examine the brutality of the wound. The bullet penetrated the flesh beside his shoulder blade and exited with enough force to hit the windshield, barely dodging a shattered bone or two. The wound managed to clot itself in the ample time he drove to escape unplanned disturbances, but dried blood covers his entire shoulder. Sydney dabs at the residue with a swab of alcohol, cleaning away the yellowed blood's remains.

            "How does it look from the back?" he asks, or rather states. She glances up at his weary stare, then fiercely presses the swab of alcohol against the wound. His muscles twitch, but his expression remains blank.

            "You'll live," she replies, tossing the dirty swab into the first aid kit.

            She unrolls the gauze and slowly lifts up his arm. With one hand, she holds up the limb composed of pure muscle and a thin coat of flesh, while she tries to wrap the gauze around the injury with her other. The task proves to be quite impossible and Sark realizes this as she tries unsuccessfully to roll the gauze around his arm.

            Using his free arm, he reaches across his chest and grabs the gauze from her hand. He pulls it across the front of his wound, then hands it back to her, upon which, she pulls it across the back of the wound. The understanding that this could be the first and last time they work together is a fleeting moment of regret. For once, Sydney has confidence in her partner.

            When the roll of gauze is completely used, she ducks behind his lifted arm and grabs the gauze hooks from the first aid kit. She then fastens the gauze's end to the layer beneath it.

            "Are you capable of driving with that arm?" she asks, slowly letting it drop down. He grabs his shirt from the trunk, then slowly and very warily manages to put his injured arm into the sleeve.

            "I'll manage," he retorts with his gaze focused on the shirt's front. His weak hand struggles to hold the tiny buttons and yet he refuses to ask for help. The Sark she grew to detest stands before her, trying ineffectively to dress himself, and Sydney cannot help but sympathize with him.

            "Well, now that you've uncovered my heinous plan, feel free to return to civilization," he says, finally accepting defeat and leaving the top half of his shirt unbuttoned. She nods, then turns to walk away, but this rare agreement between enemies cannot go unacknowledged. Not often does an adversary release his hostage a day later without a faintest physical injury. However, she finds her legs carrying her back in the direction of the gas station, protocol getting the best of her.

            The sound of the car door slamming is all she needs to motivate her to walk faster, but something holds her back. The familiarity she found in the car, from the soft purr of the engine, is nowhere to be found. She turns around, desert sand swirling around her, and realizes that Sark is as incapable of driving as she is of walking back to civilization. The falseness of her conclusion is all but apparent, but she shuts the door on her doubts and looks up at the Oregon sun. The crunch of the sand beneath her feet is her only companion as she slowly walks back towards his car.

            He glances at the passengers side, a pile of black clothes where she had once sat. It isn't easy walking about under the scorching sun with fifty pounds worth of inventory around, no wonder she'd deposited her belongings. He searches through the garments and finds nothing that could be of use to him. No, no aid that could drive him to his safe house in Washington. He scoffs and rests one hand on the wheel.

            He's very capable of driving with one hand, but he won't admit that he's simply hunting for a reason to step out of the car and demand she return.

            And suddenly emotions he worked so hard to ignore are rearing their ugly heads in vengeance. He clamps his right hand down on key in the ignition and starts to turn it, but the soft sound of footsteps alerts him to other distractions.

            "I need answers," she demands as she comes to a stop before his open window. And like the time she glided through the cell's gates with a coded message of salvation, he sees her in the same light as before.

            "Answers, yes, I think I have a few," he responds, unlocking the passenger's side door.

xXx

Author's Notes: I guess that this was really just a space-filler and mood-setter. I needed a couple of events (maybe a couple of chapters?) to build up the relationship between Sark and Sydney and as most of you can probably guess, Sark is planning to do his own thing with the help of Sydney. Also, I am not a doctor, nor even close to one, so if the injury-healing section made no sense, be a little lenient with me.


	3. the Safe House

Disclaimer: All characters associated with Alias© do not belong to me. They belong to J.J. Abrams and the writers and producers of Alias©.

P o t e n t

The Safe House

xXx

The purring of the engine ceases and the amity withers with the fading of the car's hospitable hum.

            Sydney glances out the window, her forehead rested against the glass, and stares down at the whirlwind of sand surrounding the tires. She furrows her brow and pushes away from the pane with her hands, turning to greet Sark's blank stare.

            "Why are we still in the desert?" she asks demandingly.

            He tilts his head back and rests it against the leather of his driver's seat, his gaze warily watching the horizon before them. He parts his lips and lets out a hiss of air.

            "While you were sleeping, I took the courtesy of calling a loyal contact. He'll be arriving soon with the needed equipment," Sark explains. He unbuckles his seat belt and places his hands against the steering wheel, drumming against it with impatient fingers. As they wait, a silence falls between them.

            "Sark, when I said that I wanted answers, I was serious," she says, dragging his attention away from the rearview mirror. He turns to look at her, penetrates her with his stare, and then looks away.

            "I know," he says, resting his elbow against the door. She inwardly groans and returns to idly gazing out the window, unsure of what she's looking for, but intent on doing it any ways. When she casts him a weary look, she finds him scrutinizing her with as much concentration as he had the road. He suddenly laughs, then looks away again.

            "Remember that mission in Paris, where Sloane sent us after the missing NSA terminal… I told you that it was a pity we were traveling separately because we could've used the opportunity to get to know each other."

            She remembers quite vividly the costumes they wore. The oddest of couples in all of Paris. He wore a cape and she wore an orange construction hat. They both stuck out like sore thumbs.

            He glances at her and laughs again, a bitterly regretful chuckle.

            "And it's simply amusing because now that we have time on our hands to spare, I don't know what to say."

            She sighs and folds her arms across her chest, eyeing Sark suspiciously as his expression becomes grave and he turns to look out his window again.

            "Does my dad know about this?" she finally asks, curiosity getting the best of her.

            "As far as the world is concerned, we're both supposed to be dead," he says, "but the Covenant caught on quicker then I'd hoped."

            She rubs at her forehead with her palm and leans back into the folds of her chair.

            "We've both come back from Hell before, though."

            His gaze suddenly flickers from her towards the horizon and he quickly climbs out of the car. Before she can follow, he's at the passenger's door, opening it for her. She brushes away his hand as she steps out of the car, refusing to believe that there still exists the shell of a courteous man beneath his smug grin and cocked brow.

            The contact parks his midnight blue Acura RL opposite them on the road, his car facing southbound while Sark's faces north.

            "Sydney, I don't think any introductions are required," Sark says as he takes her hand and guides her across the road to Weiss.

xXx

            "What—how?" Sydney asks as they make it across the empty road.

            "Don't talk, I'll explain as we move," Weiss says, hurriedly rushing to open the trunk of his car. He lifts up the hood and points to the various kits labeled with abbreviations like 'ART' and 'DIS'.

            "Your standard firearms—sigs, glocks, revolvers, there" he says with one hand beneath the hood and the other furiously pointing at certain supplies. "Your wigs, clothes, accessories—you can go through it later—over here."

            He continues rattling off their list of supplies but never takes a breath to explain what he's doing assisting them with the chase they've thrown themselves into. He breaks a sweat as he speaks and hastily wipes his brow with his sleeve. She can only stare at the two men as they discuss what materials Weiss did and didn't bring with him. At least she can bask in the relief that he's in good health.

            Finally, Weiss turns to look at her.

            "Syd', we did this for your own good, okay?" he says before tossing the car's keys to Sark. He catches them effortlessly and tucks the ring around his index finger before reaching into his own pocket and giving Weiss the keys to his Coupé. For a moment, she is perplexed by this exchange, but realizes the circumstances of the situation and heads towards the passenger's side of the car.

            "I am not getting in until somebody tells me what the hell is going on," Sydney insists with her back facing the car. Weiss pulls a suitcase out from the backseat and opens it, pulling out a walkie-talkie.

            "Yogi Bear, the picnic basket is safe, it's on its way to Yosemite," Weiss says, his face contorted with pleasure as he does his best to suppress his laughter. She furrows her brow, but smirks any ways.

            "I was hoping that'd earn me the satisfaction of seeing you smile," Sark says, his expression still as bleak as it was before. He glances down at the firearm in his hand, checks for the number of cartridges, then tucks it into his waistband. "My one request throughout this entire operation was that we refer to your father as Yogi Bear. I'll have to credit the rest of that rather unneeded comment to Weiss' improvisational wit."

            She turns to stare at Sark at the mention of her father.

            "He knows?" she asks, her hands pressed on the top of the car.

            "He was the mastermind behind this entire scheme," he replies, opening the car door.

            "But you told me that he thought I was dead!" she yells in response, alerting Weiss of her rising temper. He throws the radio back into the suitcase after listening to the static filled response and snaps the latches down.

            "I told you that the figurative world thought you were dead, not your father," he says before climbing into the car. He starts the engine and Sydney has no choice but to quickly follow him before making a fool of herself. She slams the door shut and watches as Weiss backs away from the car, to the other side of the road where the BMW is parked.

            "Where's Weiss going?" she asks Sark, her eyes still focused intently on her co-worker.

            "He's going to make sure no one ever knew we were here," he says in perfect synchronization with Weiss' opening of the suitcase. He places the car into reverse, then executes a U-Turn with deft precision. She stares behind them at Weiss as he tosses something through the Coupé's broken windshield, throwing his body into the sand seconds before the car detonates into thousands of pieces of twisted metal and glass. As naïve as it is, she finds herself mourning the loss of the vehicle that she called 'home' for a period of forty-eight hours. Good-bye to the comfortable leather interior and soft hum of the engine—and even the classical music Sark dared to play when he thought she was sleeping. She turns back to face the road before them in time to see a helicopter soar overhead towards the wreckage.

xXx

            After leaving the desert behind them, Sark opted for taking a more scenic route. One that traveled along the coast and through empty mountains with roads wrapped seductively about them. One that greeted the shoreline on one side and thick forest on the other. One that he somehow knew would satisfy Sydney.

            She stares out the window, unwilling to admit how placid the panorama makes her. Every now and then he'll look at her and she swears that the gears run in his head, coming up with excuses to fill the gaps in the plan that he, her father and Weiss worked so covertly to concoct. She's gathered enough information to create her own explanation for their actions, but it's unstable and easily toppled.

            She idly runs her finger along the glass, tracing the outline of the road as it blurs by. It's night again and the moon is high above them. The Acura blends in well with the peaceful settings, although it could never replace the mollifying hum of the BMW Coupé. Unable to contain herself, she turns towards Sark.

            "How did you know that I'd get back in the car?" she asks, referring to their minor conflict back in the desert.

            He shrugs as he continues increasing the speed.

            "I didn't," he says.

xXx

            He pulls off the road and onto an unlabeled dirt trail that goes for miles. They drive along in silence again as the trees surrounding them cast shadows across the car. Finally, there is a part in the forest to a clearing where a discreet cottage sits. It's two floors and entirely composed of wood. There are matching brown shutters to each dark window and the front porch is screened in. Sydney is slightly comforted by Sark's presence.

            She climbs out of the car the same time that he does and together they approach the cabin. He walks ahead of her as he digs in his pocket for the key to the front door.

            "Was it part of the plan to shoot me in the arm?" she asks as he unlocks the door and opens it to let her enter first. He doesn't laugh at her sarcasm and responds by slamming the door shut behind them.

            "No, but neither was it part of the plan for the Covenant to realize that I'm still very much alive," he says with some sternness. "And before you ask, your father arranged for this current dwelling, so if you have any complaints, direct them to him."

            Already they've made a careless mistake credited to uncontrolled emotions. The cabin should be deserted, but rarely has she encountered a safe house whose whereabouts are truly unknown. She pulls out the revolver that's kept her hip heavy for the past few days and proceeds down the hall as Sark lithely takes the steps upstairs, two at a time.

            Most of the rooms have no doors, only doorframes with rusty hinges. She takes her time checking each room even though the furnishings are considerably sparse. The kitchen has a working refrigerator and stove, but the shattered coffeepot only takes up space on the bare counter. She checks beneath the table and chairs for bugs or bombs, pinching the bridge of her nose to prevent any agitation from the dust. It could have been a fantasy home for someone, somewhere, before age overtook it.

            After clearing the kitchen, she slowly walks into the small living room. No television, but a laptop already set up for her by her father and Weiss, no doubt. She performs the routine search again, flipping over the couch's pillows and rifling through the contents of the wastebasket. Just a soiled napkin from a burger someone ate. Weiss, she concludes again.

            Another flight of stairs leads up to the second floor from the living room. It's a spiral staircase that rotates twice before touching the upper floor. She warily proceeds with her revolver aimed to the ground. The steps lead up to a single hall where a few windows let in enough moonlight for her to tell that Sark is nowhere to be found. Suddenly the tables have turned and she feels more like the escort then the victim. Did Sark make a break for it as she examined the lower floor or was he a better man than that?

            A creak on the floorboards sends her pivoting on her heel, revolver pressed in the chest of the body before her. There's a grunt of disapproval and she feels agile hands pushing hers away.

            "Damnit, Sark!" she hisses. He steps into a patch of light and she realizes that he's smirking.

            "And what exactly would you have done if I'd been an assailant, Sydney? Buffet me to death?" he jokes as he motions towards the revolver. She glances down at the firearm and nearly slaps herself for having left the safety on. By the time she flicked the latch, she could've found herself lying in a pool of her own blood. Another careless mistake contributed to rash emotions.

            "The ground floor is clear," she says, finding her voice again. Although her nerves are standing on edge, she manages to control herself in a somewhat dignified manner.

            "As is the upper floor," he replies, tucking his own firearm back into his waistband. "I'm going to take the suitcases out of the car, feel free to join me."

            With that said, he walks towards the flight of stairs leading directly to the front door and she willingly follows. Slightly better now that his mood is one of amusement instead of bitter resentment, she walks outside with him.

            "Now that we're here, care to tell me what's going on?" she asks as soon as he opens the car's trunk. He hefts out the first suitcase and sets it down on the ground, only to be picked up seconds later by Sydney.

            "This idea—" he pauses, lifting out another case, "—was your father's. But I wouldn't be surprised if your mother took some part in this as well."

            She raises a brow and heads towards the cabin. Her mother, still apart of her life? The thought was unwelcome. Irina Derevko had forfeited all relations with her daughter as soon as she'd escaped CIA custody. Sydney swallowed the lump in her throat and kicked aside the screen door. Sark followed her onto the porch and together, they opened the front door and dropped off the suitcases.

            "What exactly is this 'idea' of my father's?" she queries as she walks back outside again.

            Sark is silent until they reach the car again. Just three suitcases left. Someone will have to make a return trip. She picks another one up by the handle and holds it until Sark chooses one to take with him.

            "He wants to pull you out of the entire system," he replies. Together, they return to the cabin, drop their things off and walk back to the car in silence. When Sark takes the remaining suitcase into his arms, Sydney slams the hood shut and walks beside him.

            "As in—the CIA?" she asks, opening the door for him. He nods in thanks and drops the suitcase down beside its companions.

            "No," Sark says, leading her to the kitchen for a beverage. "Out of the CIA, out of their surveillance, out of the Covenant's surveillance, out of the workings of the government and the underground."

            He tosses her a bottle of water and she deftly catches it.

            "Did he tell you why?" she asks, controlling her temper. Her father was being reckless, taking the life of his daughter into his own hands. She looks to Sark for an answer but he shakes his head and puts the bottle of water aside.

            "Do you even have to ask?" he counters.

            Sydney glances down at her hands, countless scars and battle wounds, all reminders of the work that punishes her with every reward she brings back. It's a painful business that's only brought on more hate with every mission she accomplishes. Especially those after her unexpected disappearance, which she knew was a key motivation behind her father's decision. After all, if she had a daughter, would she want her back in the line of work that took her away in the first place? It was only hurting her more and more every time she entered the office, seeing Vaughn across the debriefing room's conference table, comfortably seated beside his Barbie-esque wife. The same woman who had so eagerly allowed for Sydney's imprisonment.

            She tucks her hands into her pockets, but Sark's already seen the ragged cuts that run across her palms and fingers. She's not ashamed of them in the least, but under Sark's glare, she finds herself fidgeting with the inner lining of her pockets. Her shoulders rise as she inhales in the musty odor of the room.

            "So how do you factor into all of this?" she asks, hoping to change the subject. He tears his stare away from her hidden hands and rakes them up her body until they finally meet her eyes.

            "Your father found me through Irina," he explains. "I was enjoying a glass of Merlot in a deserted apartment in Okhotsk when your father found me focusing the crosshairs on Cheylo—"

            "Vladiya Cheylo? One of the Covenant members behind the bombing in Pechora?" she asks, unknowingly interrupting his explanation. He nods and takes another drink of water. A silence falls as she realizes just how deep Sark's treachery goes.

"Your father came to me with a proposal, explaining that he and Irina had been deliberating over this for some time. You see, you aren't the only agent who lost two years, Sydney. I was useless to most of my former employers and my contacts were all but ousted. I was expectant of a deal like this from your father. The terms were that I keep you alive and refrain from falling to my inclinations and surprisingly enough, your father trusted me with ease."

Sydney drums the kitchen table with impatient fingers, still focused on the fact that her mother had decided to make a decision with her father about her even though both had been absent from her life for a good period of time. Her father, as helpful as he was, never gave her anything more then the names of obliging contacts capable of pulling her out of a rut. She lets out a sigh and leans back against the sturdy table.

"So the operation in Iceland…" she says before fading off.

"The meet in Iceland was a set up," he finishes for her. "Your father leaked false intel to Kendall. However, since Weiss was assigned to accompany you on the mission, we had no choice but to let him know of our plans. He turned out to be quite useful, though. He covered up for our disappearances and will carry the secret of our existence to the grave."

Sydney's face suddenly contorts with emotion, unsure of whether to feel happy with her new independence or angry at her parents' betrayal.

"What about my team?" she asks.

He tilts his head down, then looks up at her from beneath his shadowed brow.

"We had to Sydney, or else it wouldn't have been believable," he says. She covers her mouth as her face screws up with emotion again. At least six other field agents had come with her and Weiss to Iceland, lives that her father had so easily sacrificed for the life of his daughter. She chokes as she does her best to swallow her tears. She's half successful as her eyes brim over with saline.

"How could you?" she yells, casually wiping away the tears with the back of her hand. "They had families—they had lives."

She expects Sark to look at her with disgust at her weakness to sympathize so easily, but instead she sees nothing in his stare. It's as though he can't compute what she's doing. She takes a deep breath and calms herself, biting her tongue to keep the tears from falling.

"And how is that any better then the people you've assassinated or guards you've carelessly killed," he says, glancing out the window for distraction.

"Because they're bad!" she explains. "They shed blood because their superiors tell them to and they do it without question. It's as though they're programmed to kill without reason."

His gaze immediately snaps back to land on her, as if taunting her with the irony of her own words. His lips remain tightly clamped together, preventing him from pointing out the obvious. Realizing how satirical her statement is, she picks up her water bottle and throws it at Sark, unable to control her rage any longer. He moves his upper body aside as the bottle collides with the wall behind him. He'll let her vent because she deserves that much.

"Don't even!" she says with an accusing finger pointed at Sark. "They deserved it!"

"No more then those agents in Iceland did?" he asks. She stares at her hands again, defeated in the game that she's played nearly all her life.

"Sydney, your parents did this for your own good," he explains.

"Then why'd you do it?" she questions.

"Ask me that again once we arrive in Russia," he says. "But for now, I think you should try and get some sleep."

She doesn't want him dictating to her but she leaves the kitchen and heads upstairs any ways. She'll take a shower first, because she hasn't showered in days, and suddenly she finds that she needs to wash off more then just her sins.

xXx

She hears him climbing up the steps a few hours later, the creaking of the steps giving away his location. It's a soothing sound though—those of another presence in the cabin. She turns onto her side and curls up her legs, just a little.

She admits that it's terrifying to realize that she's just as much of a murderer as Sloane, or her mother—or Sark. But she should've expected such revelations when traveling on the road with an enemy of the state.

The door opens and the sliver of light that she expected isn't there. He turned off the hallway lights, how… eerily considerate. She sits up in bed, knowing that the moonlight should provide enough of her silhouette for Sark to realize her current position. He leans against the wall beside the door and folds his arms across his chest.

"Is it still bothering you?" he asks. She pulls her knees up to her chest and throws her arms across them. The sheets are thin, but the clothes her father provided in the closet warmly cover her.

"What?" she replies, turning to see that he's taken several steps away from the wall.

"The fact that you're a murderer," he says, never missing a beat. He's close to her bed now, but it's a large bed and she's tucked safely in the middle. She sighs and shrugs.

"I knew it, but I just never accepted it," she looks up at him, "you can sit down, if you'd like."

He declines with a shake of his head. As always, the urbane Sark prefers standing to sitting. She nods in acceptance and lies back down again.

"Good night, Sydney," he says cordially, turning to leave the room. She closes her eyes and tries to rub away the memory of his face's shadows cast by the moonlight. Scars grown old run across the bridge of his nose, down his cheeks, invisible to everyone but her. She rubs her nose in defiance and rolls over again. How was he so—unflawed? Tomorrow morning, she swears, the ball of anxiety in her stomach will have unknotted.

xXx

He prepares breakfast for the both of them—scrambled eggs and orange juice. She greets him as she walks down the spiral staircase, just a flicker of a smile, and nothing more. The events of last night are a memory and somehow, Sydney knows that it won't come back to haunt her. Before they can sit down to eat, he pulls her to the laptop set up on the living room's coffee table. He drags the cursor across the screen and clicks on a visited link in the middle of a list of news articles. Another browser appears.

"Fire Destroys Apartment Building in L.A.," she mumbles aloud, scrolling down to read the rest of the article. Beneath the headline is a picture of her former residence, in ruins, with smoke still rising from the ashes. She thinks she sees Weiss in the picture, huddled beneath a blanket and beside a fireman who's guiding him away from the site. She inhales a ragged breath of air and suddenly breakfast doesn't seem as enticing.

"Your father arranged for the fire," Sark says. "It's to give us time to leave for Russia."

"The CIA thinks it's the Covenant," she realizes, "So that they'll stop looking for my body and focus on finding the Covenant."

"And the Covenant will be temporarily distracted by this change of events, which will give us enough slack to leave safely," he finishes for her.

"So I guess there's no turning back then," she says, and he nods in response. She stands up and walks towards the kitchen, Sark following closely behind. They both take a seat at the table, but Sark refuses to eat until Sydney does.

"What are you getting out of all of this?" she asks.

"The same thing you are," he answers, leaning back in his seat.

She reluctantly takes a bite of the scrambled eggs and he does the same.

"You've kept surprisingly calm about this entire situation," he says, narrowing his eyes in a scrutinizing fashion. She pushes around the yellow mess on her plate with her fork, driving the eggs in circles around the frictionless track.

"It wouldn't exactly be too professional of me if I took out my rage on the messenger instead of the sender," she says, standing up to throw away the plate. He stands up and follows her. Combined, they may have eaten one plate's worth of breakfast.

She leans back against the kitchen counter and watches Sark as he rinses the pan in the sink.

"What are you going to do after we land in Russia?" she asks.

He keeps his eyes on the running water, then turns off the tap and sets the pan back on the stove to dry.

"Start a new life, obviously," he says, walking into the living room. They sit on separate couches, him in front of the laptop, her beside it.

"I mean—do you plan on pursuing a different… line of work?" she clarifies.

"I've always considered starting a family," he says as her eyes widen, just a bit. "Has the thought never crossed your mind, Sydney? Parenthood? Don't tell me that you've never thought of it. Redeeming yourself by correcting the faults of your mother and father…"

She hates when he does that. When he analyzes her so perfectly and takes away any form of a rebuttal that she could possibly conjure. She stares at the couch's drab floral design and sighs.

"When do we leave?" she changes the subject.

"In a few days," he says.

A few days, she could deal with Sark for a few more days.

xXx

The rest of the day passes by quickly as Sark works on the forms needed for their flight to Russia and Sydney prepares their inventory for the trip.

They'll have to pack lightly in order to avoid suspicion so she plans for a suitcase and a carry-on for both of them. They'll be the newlyweds, Mr. and Mrs. Nitbrushev, returning to Russia for their honeymoon. The wedding was in a chapel in Bellevue, Washington and it was small, with the few American relatives they had as witnesses. There were no traditional customs involved, and originally they wanted to honeymoon in Aruba. Natalia's mother is sick, though, and they're going to visit her.

She finishes memorizing the lengthy description of the circumstances behind their expedition to Russia before going to bed. Tomorrow, she'll go through the wigs and clothing Weiss provided them with in hopes that she'll find something reasonable for the two of them to wear. She hears Sark walking up the steps and quickly closes the door. Every single confrontation with him is doing something to her. Not driving her insane, maybe close to it, but it feels good. They speak on the same level, discuss the same experiences, and she knows if someone were to walk in on their conversation, they wouldn't have a clue.

The footsteps stop at her door and she takes a silent step away, half hoping that he'll walk in, half hoping that he won't, but to her dismay, he continues on and she hears him enter his bedroom.

She walks to her bed and sits down, the springs soundlessly complaining as they sink to allow her room. She rolls onto her side and curls up again, staring at the fading moonlight that daunts her from the treetops. It's ironic that she finds herself most comforted by the presence of someone who she should hate, and that if not for her father's doting worries, she wouldn't even be in this situation at all. Her head spins whenever she tries to think of what she'll say when she meets her father again. Would she yell at him for making such a brash decision without her acknowledgement? Scold him for dragging Weiss and innocent lives into the twisted plot to keep his daughter out of harm's way? Another option has recently surfaced though, one she finds herself scared of thinking about, but seems so logical.

She should thank him.

xXx

Author's Notes: I realized that the best part of a relationship is the chase. So I'm going to draw out the fluff that leads up to their wild confessions as long as I can, simply because I think it makes everyone happier. Also, I am not –learned- in any of the topics that I might've brushed over in the story. No, I have no knowledge about Russia. I just look up random locations in my Atlas. And no, I've got no idea how the CIA works, much less the Covenant, so in conclusion, I would like to say, forgive me for anything that didn't make sense. But R&R anyways because that's why I love you all.  


	4. the Confrontation

Disclaimer: All characters associated with Alias© do not belong to me. They belong to J.J. Abrams and the writers and producers of Alias©.

P o t e n t

The Confrontation

xXx

The collective symphony of the pitters and patters of rain against the rooftop wakes her up in the middle of the night, the air thick with humidity and the sound of wrinkled sheets. Outside in the hall, she hears him stir, periodically stopping at windows, then swaggering on with his rhythmic footsteps alerting her of his whereabouts.

They halt at her door and she hears the squeal of the rusty hinges as he walks in.

She sits up and pushes away the strands of hair still stuck to her forehead. She's aware her thin clothes are doused in sweat and adhere to her figure like a second skin, but she's comforted by his rosy complexion and glimmering forehead. He holds his cotton shirt in his hand by his waist, nude from neck down to the waistband of his boxer shorts, and gestures towards the window.

"The house will be a little cooler if we open all the windows," he explains, walking over to hers. He unlocks the inside pane, then pushes it up and secures it. The outer screen catches the persistent raindrops, the spray colliding with his chest as though it were a brick wall. He wipes away the residue with an impatient hand and throws his shirt over his shoulder.

"Sark," she says, resting her elbows across her knees, "you remember when you mentioned starting a family?"

He nods and takes a seat in the rocking chair by her bed. He situates his feet on the ground and suppresses the natural swing of the chair. Laying his arms across his knees in the same fashion as Sydney, he laces his fingers together and lets his hesitation ride the silence.

"What about it?" he asks.

"Have you ever thought about what would happen to them if any of your organizations were to catch up with you?"

He eyes her warily, then leans back, causing the chair to fluidly sway back and forth.

"I'll have to make sure they won't 'catch up' with me, won't I?" he says calmly.

And it seems that with the confidence he so easily displays that faltering isn't an option for him. She glances at her palms again, slashes and cuts and battle scars creating a map of her skirmishes with trepidation, and finds her gaze searching Sark's legs. There, that jagged axe wound from her failed escape attempt. She tries to remember the pounding of blood in her head that led her to violence, but she falls short, distracted by Sark as he moves to sit beside her.

"What do you plan on doing once we reach Russia?" he asks, having lost the chance to interrogate her about it before. She shrugs in response, feelings of animosity towards her parents rearing up despite her efforts to pacify them.

            "Arrange to meet my mother to discuss a few things," she says, brushing a few strands of hair from her face.

            "I meant—the larger picture," he replies, turning to look at her. She shrugs and returns his gaze.

            "I've always wanted to live in France, along the coast," she says, "Maybe in a cottage, a little nicer then this one, with a cook."

            "So I take it that my gourmet cooking didn't cater to your needs," he jokingly says, nodding with a feigned understanding.

            For the first time in what seems like days, she laughs, a genuine laughter that surprises even her. Her mirth strikes her as surprising, considering her company and her situation, and the path she's forced to tread. Doubts and worries suddenly crowd her head, her mind incapable of containing them all, and she wonders whether the rain has moved indoors because her eyes leak water. She feels her laughter fading into contained mumblings of consternation and covers her forehead with her quivering palms.

            She wants to believe that she's correct in making her own decision and demanding the lives of the unrighteous, but the void of concern that grows with facing her murderous half and leaving her choices to others swallows her until she's three again and obediently falling into the ruse her parents created. It cuts even deeper that Sark's finally won, hoodwinking her with the cooperation of those that once provided comfort.

 The tears are short-lived as she's left in the arms of fatigue, Sark's presence eerily soothing. She looks up at him as if to say 'Yeah, like you've never cried before' but he probably never has and the lack of a weakness stings.

"I don't want this," she says firmly, gripping onto the thin sheets with concentration. He looks at her, inquires with his tilted head and raised brow, and she shakes her head.

"I'm just stuck right now, stuck between a hard place and a rock," she continues, emphasizing the "k" in rock. Sark looks away and folds his shirt, smoothes out the wrinkles in his boxer shorts, anything to keep his gaze from straying.

"I want to go back to L.A., Sark. I want to go back to when my apartment wasn't burned down, when I wasn't dead… when I was still enthralled by Marshall's ability to stick a camera in a tampon," she says with a hint of sarcasm. He scoffs and slowly stands up, throwing the shirt back over his shoulder. It's understandable what Sydney's trying to code with nostalgic phrases and clichés. Still in love with a broken man.

Sark stifles the claws of envy, not here, and not now. He cocks his head towards the door and briefly grits his teeth together before announcing his departure.

"I'm going to close the rest of the windows," he explains, excusing himself. She stands up as he takes his first step out of the room.

"Are you all right?" she asks, interest, not worry, baring the inquiry. He backtracks, finds himself where he was seconds ago, and pivots on his heel to face her.

"Sydney, tell me, are you consumed by the idea of returning to L.A. for the life it provided you or the man that it took from you?" he rejoins, watching her expression become bleak as he pushes the blade in harder. He doesn't regret his words, doesn't regret invoking that feeling of fury in Sydney, and certainly doesn't regret bringing to light taboo.

"Is this about Vaughn?" she asks, approaching him in quick strides. He could have stopped the fire before it became a conflagration by turning and leaving her without an answer, again, for the hundredth time, but instead he finds his lips forming the word 'Yes' and before he can stop himself, it slips out like air.

She stalls, her contorted expression of anger reaching a blip, fathoming his words with precise obsession.

"What?" she says, fast and quick, almost unheard, but he catches it before it fades.

"Don't let him make the decision for you," he says sternly. "There is no one left for you in L.A."

And now the blade seems to protrude through her back, its journey complete. All that remains is the calming sensation that racks the body before death and when he looks directly into her eyes, he sees the belligerency withering.

She runs through names in her head, a mental pocketbook of identities and locations that no longer hold any meaning. Dixon has his children, Marshall has his wife and child, Weiss has Vaughn and Vaughn—Vaughn has Lauren. Her knees buckle but she presses her nails into her hands until the pain forces her to stand up straight. There is no one left for her but Sark.

"Oh fuck you!" she finally says, her temper dying fast. She moves to slam the door, her hand shaking from contained rage as it grasps the doorknob, but he's a step ahead of her. With his strong arm, he keeps the door ajar, her efforts to close it now wasted. She stares at him as he walks back into the room, taking three steps for every one she takes backwards. The space between them becomes nonexistent as he pushes his body against hers, trapped between the wall and his libido.

He swiftly dips his head down, his lips brushing past her ear and his breaths caressing the side of her neck. She exhales slowly between clenched teeth, the hiss of air hitting his collarbone, then past his shoulder and into the wide space behind him. Her heartbeat is erratic, too fast, and with his neck pressed against hers, he already knows.

"Do you mean that, Sydney? Do you want to sacrifice what's left of your innocence to satisfy your rage?" he says, alluding to her false disposition. His hand slips onto the curve of her hip and slowly progresses upwards, but she firmly places her palm against it before it can reach her breast.

"I can make my own god damn decisions, Sark," she replies, "I don't need you to tutor me on how it's done."

He relinquishes his hand from her side and places it on the wall next to her head.

"Then prove it," he demands, her eyes trained on his mouth as he runs his tongue over his lips. His intense expression softens as the stalemate ensues, and finally he pushes away from the wall and walks out of the room.

She feels the wall sliding along her back as she hits the ground with a soft thud that's quickly drowned out by the rainfall, and she wonders when the room became so cold.

xXx

The storm passes, a subsiding shower dripping rainwater onto the cabin's rooftop. She walks downstairs, aware that Sark is not on the bottom floor, and softly treads through the halls until she finds herself at the front door. She walks onto the screened-in front porch, giving her a perfect view of the Acura and the forest beyond. It goes for miles, the headlights of the cars that rarely drive by completely unnoticeable from her position.

The humidity is replaced by a calming breeze that slips through the screens and seeps into her skin. She pulls the robe around her tighter, the edges worn from overuse, and takes a seat in a wicker chair. Hours have passed since he confronted her, made her realize how attached she was to a figment, and then left her cold and alone.

She runs a hand through her hair as she pulls her knees up close to her body. Sark had been right about one thing. She'd been willing to sacrifice a new beginning for an old ending. Vaughn had made his decision and she'd made hers, sitting in the rocking chair of her bedroom, listening for his reassuring breathing.

Sark is a different breed of romance and a different kind of ending. Rough, swift, understanding and impossible. She sighs, her breath coming out slowly. It's crossed her mind thousands of times since she woke up in his car, delirious and drugged, but it's farfetched. She wants it, though, wants him.

The front door opens and she turns in time to see Sark handing her a cup of tea. The string dangles off the edge of the mug, anchored by the tag. It comes as no surprise that it's the same brand her mother used to drink when they were on good terms, when she was too young to appreciate the taste. She mutters her thanks and takes the cup, holding it tightly between her hands.

He takes the seat beside her. Instead of nudity, he opts for a hooded sweatshirt and sweat pants. Is it really that cold? She lets go of the cup with one hand and places it on the armrest of her chair. Goosebumps run up her arm beneath the robe. Yes, it's chilly.

He leans back and props up one leg on the knee of the other. Neither of them wants to initiate the conversation, but reluctantly, he drops a pebble of a statement into their silence.

"Are you feeling better?" he asks, taking a sip of the tea. She sets her cup down on the stand between them, letting her hand idle on the stand's flat surface.

"I'll live," she replies. Her voice is composed, almost nonchalant, but inside she's shriveling away with each second that he keeps her company. She bites her bottom lip and loosely hugs her knees.

"Your father and I spoke a few minutes ago," he says, staring at her, "and it seems our time has run out."

"So the Covenant's finally caught up with us," she responds with a nod.

"We'll be taking a flight to Sheremetjevo International airport in Moscow from Bandera State Airport tomorrow morning at seven," he explains, his gaze now fixated on the Acura. His brow knits with concentration. He knows she's going to point it out, mention that the massacre in Iceland could have been prevented, and leave him with an even heavier burden of guilt, but she remains silent, her fingers drumming the table top. He feels the vibrations through his clenched fist and turns to look at her hand. The constant movement of her digits is just enough of a distraction to keep her from noticing the quake of her body.

He sees the rhythm break several times as a spasm overtakes her hand, skipping the index finger and proceeding onto the middle. It occurs a few more times before he quickly reaches out and pushes his palm against the top of her hand. He wants to pull away before spoiling his lifelong belief that any physical contact less then sexual is dangerous, but he's already crossed that line and somehow finds himself content with their positions.

Her gaze slowly drifts down to their hands just as he laces his fingers in between hers. For a second, he thinks she'll pull away, but instead, she pulls in her fingers around his and says nothing. They fall into a comfortable silence, the only sound that of the fading rain.

xXx

Night falls and they eat dinner separately. He takes it in the living room where he can continue working on correcting last minute details on their forms while she eats alone in the kitchen, after he leaves to take a shower. They avoid each other with intense precision, making sure to take a different staircase if they hear the other one groaning with added weight, or leaving rooms seconds before the other enters. She sits in her room most of the day, deliberating whether to wear the blonde wig or the black wig. She decides neither and chooses a brunette one.

Her closet is empty and the toiletries are disposed of as soon as she finishes her shower. The Covenant would take hours to find the cabin, but they'd find it in the end. She steps out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around her when she hears him cough politely.

"Is this a good time?" he asks, standing by her door. She's hesitant, but gestures for him to enter.

"What do you want?" she inquires with a hint of impatience, shivers crawling down her spine. It's cold and her hair is wet and the chance of catching pneumonia is high.

"The outfits, for tomorrow," he answers, still standing close to the door. She nods and walks over to her bed, his clothes laid out along the sheets as though the wearer had simply deflated and vanished. She hands him the Armani suit lined with minor modifications unable to be picked up by the normal security check at the airport.

He leans forwards and takes the clothes from her arms, casually running his hand along her shoulder. She sucks in a breath of air, hoping he doesn't notice.

"It's healed," he says, referring to the bullet wound that he'd inflicted.

"Yours?" she counters, and he nods. She continues holding the towel protectively to her chest as he rakes his gaze along the suit. They were mere hours away from a new life.

New lives, he reminds himself, it's plural. They aren't going to share a single life. They are going to pursue different lives. He repeats the phrase over and over again in his head, but it doesn't sink in.

She glances up at him, waiting for him to do something—but not leave. She doesn't want him to leave most of all, but as though he's completely ignorant of her, he turns and steps out of her room. Her throat goes dry and she walks back to her bed to take a seat.

They have a few hours left. Of course he won't do anything unpredictable. She picks up her wig and clothes for tomorrow and sets them on the wicker rocking chair by her bed. It could keep her company and make her oblivious to the world around her. She needs to towel off her hair and change into something warmer but her limbs refuse to cooperate, stapled to the bed sheets.

She sits up as he walks back into the room, no suit in his hands.

"Sydney," he says as he covers the distance between them in a few quick strides. He stops directly in front of her and opens his mouth to say something, but only brief glitches of hesitation slip out. "I--.. I…"

She stands up, her full height allowing her to meet his gaze if she tilts her head at a slight angle.

"Sark?" she asks.

He dips his head down and presses his lips against hers, hard, a craving demanding satisfaction driving his actions. He brings his hands to her face and slips his fingers into her wet hair, pulling her closer. Her head turns, her body pressing against his, her hand drifting away from the towel. He's close, close enough to hold it up with the tightness between them. She wraps her arms around his neck and finds her heart at a roadblock, not allowing her to breathe.

This isn't how it was supposed to be, a relationship of such extremities is a hazard to all those involved. She wants to say no but she's spurred on by his neediness and the desperation in his touch. He's wanted it for as long as she has, and like two forces of nature, they've finally collided with so much fervor that resistance seems nonexistent.

He pulls away and starts to explain himself but his eyelids have already closed halfway and desire deafens them both. She mumbles a 'shh' and pulls him to her again, needing that rough touch but gentle stroke. She hasn't felt anything but longing for years and suddenly fulfillment is more important to her then the Covenant or the CIA. Her tongue brushes across his crooked lip and he opens up for her, the neediness between them weakening the walls they both built up so heavily before.

Her heartbeat pounds in her head, the same heartbeat that'd driven her to hurting him so many times before. She can hear nothing but the thump-thump as it increases with the hardness that nudges her through her towel. Its persistent and she pulls her lips away from his, his eyes immediately opening with the break in contact.

"Sark," she whispers against the corner of his mouth. Her gaze moves down, then back up.

"Sydney," he says, kissing her collarbone, "I need you."

She pushes away from him and loosens her towel, letting it pool around her feet. He lets her pull off his sweatshirt as he takes off his sweatpants and boxers and kicks them aside.

He leans against her again, running his hands through her hair as she guides him backwards towards the bed. They break apart for seconds, enough time for both of them to slip onto the bed, bodies intertwined with sheets and the sound of hushed moans. She drags her kisses from his mouth down to his chin and along his neck, running her tongue along his jugular vein. He groans and flips her onto her back, his fingers quickly plunging into her. She clutches onto his neck, her nails digging into his nape, and relaxes when he pulls them out.

"Sark," she moans, but he quickly covers her mouth just as he enters her, her chest rising to meet his. He whispers inaudible nothings into her ear followed by strenuous grunts of pleasure as she writhes beneath him, back arching periodically. T

They both become desperate, needy, hands losing themselves along the contours of their partner's body, memorizing every scar, every bump, every detail, every groan that slips out. She swears that she'll regret this because once they touch down in Russia, they'll no longer be the Sydney and Sark they are now. She basks in his company for the few hours they have left, his pushes becoming faster and deeper.

She finally breaks, her entire body quaking with relief, and she whispers his name against his ear. He comes soon after, supporting himself with his arms long enough to roll to the side to keep from falling on top of her. He pulls out and collapses alongside her, her head immediately tucking itself against his chest. She turns her back towards him and holds on tightly to the arms that wrap around her. Their breathing is strained, but calms down quickly, and soon there's silence. She wonders if he's sleeping or if he's thinking the same thing she is.

This moment will never have existed once they reach Russia.

xXx

She wakes up hours later with her body covered with Sark instead of a sheet. Her legs are wrapped around his and his arms are around her waist. It's still dark out and she can feel his slumbering breath against the nape of her neck. She wonders what it would be like to wake up to this the next morning and the morning after that. And every morning of every day of every year for the rest of her life.

She stifles a snort of disbelief and turns around to face him. He looks almost cherubic. She stifles another snort and runs her knuckles down his cheek. His eyes open, the bright blue gaze piercing through her.

"We've got to go in a few hours," she says, and like that he climbs out of the bed and leaves her cold and alone. He grabs his things from the floor and quickly dresses, his movements so coordinated and lithe that she wonders whether he's done this before. She wants to slap herself for being so stupid. Of course he'd done this hundreds of times before.

Thousands, even.

The sex had been so raw and rough that maybe it truly held no meaning for him. Just sexual satisfaction. She squeezes her eyes as he turns away, trying to drown out the ugly thoughts, but it's too late. She feels soiled.

His expression is nonchalant when he turns around to look at her, completely clothed, while she sits on the bed, naked. She meets his stare, refusing to come off as the lesser, and returns the feelings of indifference.

"Bring your things downstairs and I'll put them into the car," he says as he leaves. She swallows the bile in her throat and quickly finds something to put on. How could she have been so stupid? So clueless? It was animalistic what they'd done, so quickly and so without care.

She glances at the watch clipped to her suitcase. It was five so she had around a half hour to an hour to prepare. She looked at herself in the bathroom mirror, red marks where he'd grabbed her as he thrust and bruised her with his lips.

Two could play at this game.

She closed the room door and walked back into the bathroom, unaware that Sark stood inches away, listening to the sounds of insouciance.

xXx

They walk into the airport quietly, money the only word coming to one's mind upon seeing them. Bruno Nitbrushev has one hand on the waist of his new wife and the other tucked into his pocket. His jacket is open, as are the top few buttons of his shirt, revealing the expanse of chiseled skin. He walks with his head tilted up, a pair of expensive sunglasses tucked into his hair and an air of dignity that brings employees flocking.

At his side is Natalia, a brunette with hair that fans out and bounces when she struts. Her dress is strapless, low cut and quite revealing. She wears heels about an inch and a half high with laces that wrap around her legs. Her finger and toenails are painted blood red to match her lipstick and her eyes are surrounded with a rainbow of pastel eye shadow. She sways her hips at the right time, makes her lips pout with innocence and bats her eyelashes at officials.

They pass through the security check without so much as a false impression. The microphone in Bruno's watch goes unnoticed as does the microphone in Natalia's giant wedding ring. They walk onto the plane, hand in hand, but as soon as they reach their seats, they immediately separate.

She stares out the window the entire flight, only looking away for the in-flight meal. Even then, she stills casts weary stares out the window, curious as to why her food seems to grow instead of diminish. She eats more then half, though, and is surprisingly full.

Sark is careful to only transfer food onto her plate when she isn't looking. He's casually deceptive and manages to dump a spoonful of his own meal onto hers as a Stewardess walks past, watching. She needs to eat, though, considering that he hadn't helped her eating habits get any better. He's content when she eats more then half.

The flight is calm, although the most unnoticeable of turbulence problems sends Sark out of his chair. She constantly places her hand on his arm, reassures him that the Covenant is not flying behind them, and returns to looking out the window.

He first realizes that she'll touch him when he flinches unexpectedly. The first time is when a passing child tugs on his sleeve, mistaking him for her father. He pulls away quickly, alerting Sydney, who places a hand on his arm but continues to stare out the window. He repeats the process again with the smallest of fluctuations and every time, she follows through as promises and brushes her hand against his arm.

He plays this game for the rest of the flight, misery flooding through him as the captain announces their arrival at Sheremetjevo International airport. They land without any problems and he and Sydney leave first class and walk onto Russian soil.

Irina greets them, explaining that Jack can't make it due to unforeseen problems. But it doesn't matter, she says, because you're here. She talks to Sydney and not to him and he simply leaves without a good-bye or an explanation. They would understand. They would have to. He slips into the crowd of people, swaying with them, and asks for forgiveness from nobody.

Sydney turns towards her side and realizes that Sark is gone.

"Did he go to the bathroom?" she asks her mom, her throat dry from having not spoken a word since departing from the airport in Washington. Her mother shakes her head and raises a brow.

Sydney realizes that the rage she felt towards her mother is no longer there, just an emptiness that can't be filled. She glances around nervously, then turns back to meet her mother's scrutinizing stare. No, her mother probably already knew. She looks down at her blood red toes and accepts Sark's disappearance. It's what he wants, and it's what she tells herself she wants.

Her mother takes her hand and Sydney is a child once again, no worries, no attachments to any one else but Irina, and leaves the airport without seeing Sark.

xXx

Author's Notes: So much fluff and smut that I just burned out at the end. Most of you will probably notice how shitty the conclusion is, just a bunch of summarizations because I want to end this story and start my next one. There'll be one chapter left, and only one left because that's all I've got left in me. Why did I ruin their relationship, you may ask. Well, simply because the story would have been just boring with them cuddling and snuggling for the rest of the story. It's got more of an edge, don't you think? And let me mention again that I am not learn-ed in the skills of airport procedures and thus, just skipped over all of it, as am I not understanding of how complex all their damn gadgets are. I am also not a smut expert. Any ways, the next chapter will only be about half this size and it should really just be an epilogue, but I say… no. Have fun, my readers, and as always R&R.


	5. the Ending

Disclaimer: All characters associated with Alias© do not belong to me. They belong to J.J. Abrams and the writers and producers of Alias©.

**P o t e n t**

The Ending

xXx

The picture is black and white, blurry and speckled like a scrambled television transmission. A man with curls of light-colored hair and narrowed eyes is leaving a store, dark suit blending him like camouflage into the evening setting. The surrounding crowd barely notices him, their attention directed towards something out of the camera's focus. Some maintain expressions of curiosity, others, looks of horror.

The customer shakes the photo in front of her, causing light to reflect off the glossy paper and skew the picture. The waitress nods, her tresses of blonde hair bouncing around her shoulders. She remembers his cultivated accent and sophisticated demeanor and the way he swaggered when he left the restaurant. It is unmistakable, the man in the picture. She explains this to the aging customer who claims he's looking for his son.

They look nothing alike but she doesn't question his motives and tells him that he'd mentioned something about a hotel down the street. She gives him directions and he has to take out a pair of circular reading glasses to understand her scribbles. He nods his thanks and tucks the picture back into his coat pocket. The waitress smiles and leaves him to his meal.

xXx

The end of the Covenant is near, Irina tells him before the murders begin.

The first body is found, contorted into a position of horrific discomfort, in a garbage disposal outside of a nearby L.A. bakery. The face is mangled, the body torn and the legs riddled with bullet holes. But the killer is deft and delivers another body to the police by the end of the week, his spree relentless and unstoppable.

The murders move to Europe where Covenant leaders, distraught with fear, seemingly vanish from the face of the planet. Only to be found days later with slit throats and mauled bodies.

The speed at which the slayings are performed only leaves one name on Jack's mind.

He finds Sark in Berlin, Germany, crosshairs situated on his crippled target eleven stories below. The victim dances with disillusion, the pain from his shattered kneecaps sending him into a state of euphoria. The meager amount of moonlight casts his mangled shadow across the cobblestone road. Shuttered windows and locked doors provide them a few seconds of privacy before the tenants are alerted by the wounded screams of pain. Jack waits for the body to collapse upon itself to interrupt Sark.

"You took longer then I thought you would," he immediately says, taking apart the sniper rifle. He quickly sets the pieces in their assigned foam spots in his black suitcase as though he's done it thousands of times before.

"Yes, I imagined that you preferred working alone," Jack replies, his hands fumbling deep in his coat pockets, touching the crumpled piece of paper only after much deliberation.

"Why are you here, Agent Bristow?" Sark asks, pulling the suitcase off the ledge. His lips tighten as his patience wears thin. He had one goal for the evening and it was achieved. They both turn as a door abruptly opens below and a woman's frantic screeching awakens the street.

"I want you to prove me wrong," he says, taking the piece of paper out of his pocket. He holds it out in his hand, the address prominent against the beige colored paper. Sark takes a wary step forward and casts a glance down at the location. France.

He looks back up at Jack, furrowed brow and piercing stare. He doesn't want him to take it, Sark realizes, but the address isn't written in her handwriting.

"Whatever you did," Jack says, "I want you to fix it."

"And why do you attribute Sydney's unhappiness to me?" he queries, holding his hands in front of him.

"I never mentioned that it was Sydney who needed your help," Jack says. "Take it."

Sark turns away as the sound of police sirens reaches his ears. He refrains from taking the slip of paper.

"If I had known that you were going to personally deliver her address to me, I wouldn't have gone through the trouble of finding it," he says indifferently before leaving the rooftop. 

xXx

He waits for the cleaning service to finish their rounds down the hall to stoop down in front of the hotel room door. Wrinkled fingers deftly pick the lock, eyes glazed over with age magnified behind large glasses. He hears the dulled clashing of metal before the faint click that grants him entrance and stands up quickly. He turns the knob and pushes the door open.

The hotel room is spotless, no luggage stored away or suits hung up in the closet. The bathroom appears untouched without a hint of human residence. He leaves the lights turned off as he wanders through the room, flipping over pillows and sheets and looking in drawers for any firearms. The curtains are wide open and he can see his reflection in the immaculate glass. As he stoops down to check beneath the nightstand, the door closes, then locks.

"Arvin."

Sloane reminds himself to look reserved and unaffected as he slowly stands up, hands balled together in front of him in uncanny prayer. He sees Sark's reflection in the window and notes his casual demeanor and lack of hostility. With confidence, Sloane reaches into his coat and pulls out his revolver.

"It's a pity after so many years, this is how we must meet," he says. Years of fruitless searching for his own apprentice and under such circumstances, they reconvene. Sloane shakes his head in feigned pity and clucks his tongue for added effect. Sark remains stoic, hands behind his back clasped tightly together.

His hands are old, too old to be holding such artillery again, but the feel of cool metal against his sweating palms reminds him of his objective. Sark's reflection blurs in the glass as he moves and Sloane quickly pivots, gun pointed forward and index finger on the trigger.

But he stalls.

And the bullet lodges itself deep into his stomach, shattering organs and spilling blood across the recently vacuumed carpet. He mumbles of peace and Rambaldi before lurching forward towards Sark's raised gun, hands scratching at his gaping wound. Sark takes a carefully planned step backwards, giving Sloane ample room to collapse onto the carpet. His shadow seems gigantic, laid across the quaking body of his former mentor.

"Why?" Sloane manages to ask as blood fills his mouth.

"Dead men do not talk," Sark sneers, ending the muffled screams.

xXx

            She buys red Calla Lilies from the flower vendor every other morning after her run.

The florist sets aside a bouquet for her as soon as he unlocks the front door to his shop. She is a frequent customer and never denies him the pleasure of side conversation. She keeps him company for hours, smiling while he tells hers outlandish stories and accepting his exaggerated tales as truths. He notices that she avoids looking at newspapers or magazines and when talking of recent news, she changes the subject.

"There is a madman on the loose in Germany. They say he is the devil—" he says one day after reading an article in the local paper, his expression contorting comically with wrinkles pushing against one another.

"The new display you have is beautiful," she interrupts. His fear breaks and he smiles, nodding as he peers over his golden spectacles at the window. The roses had taken him hours to primp and trim and his world quickly returns to that of botany.

He tries to convince her to buy the roses, 35 roses for 25 euros. She objects and leaves the shop with her arms nursing a bouquet of lilies. He is satisfied, though, for she has never once left the store empty-handed.

The red Calla Lilies are not waiting for her when the florist greets her at the front door. He appears melancholy, his features seemingly aged several decades. As puts on his spectacles to read her the news on the front page, she turns away to prepare a statement worth interrupting him.

"Arvin Sloane, creator of Omnifam, died yesterday evening at approximately ten o' clock after returning to his hotel room after a light meal at a nearby restaurant," he reads, some of his words stumbling as he takes the spectacles off the bridge of his nose. "He paid for my grand children's medical insurance, did you know that?"

He is obviously distraught but his customer is all but uncaring. She glances at the window and turns back to look at the flourist.

"I'll buy the roses today," she says, successfully distracting him for the hundredth time. He smiles and takes her arm as they walk across the shop towards display.

For the first and only time, she leaves the shop with something other then red Calla Lilies in her arms.

The florist looks up as the bell above the door chimes. It is a new customer, dressed in dark colors that clash with his light hair. He tucks his sunglasses into his coat's pocket and slowly approaches the desk, hands clasped behind his back and stare on the bouquet of lilies beside the florist.

"How many bouquets of these," he gestures towards the lilies, "do you have?"

            The florist says that he only keeps enough to satisfy the request of one customer who frequents his shop. The stranger seems pleased with this reply and asks for the price, but the florist insists that he will only sell them to her.

            The stranger haggles, raising the price of each individual lily to thirty euros. The florist finally complies and sells the stranger his entire stock of red Calla lilies for over three thousand euros. He leaves as quietly as he entered, the florist overcome with elation.

            She comes into the shop later, her expression immediately faltering when she realizes that there is not one red Calla Lily in the shop. The florist explains his situation, but she appears heart broken. She asks the florist when she can return for her usual purchase and he tells her to return in a week. She mentions that a week might be too long.

            She leaves with a small wave and he watches as she walks down the cobblestone road in the direction of her cabin by the shore. He sighs and returns to clipping his flowers.

xXx

Sydney warily walks up the steps to her front door, paranoia forcing her to approach her own house with caution. She knows he's here, not by the unlocked door or the lilies scattered across the ground, but by the chill that runs down her spine.

She carefully traipses around the flowers littering the wooden floorboards and follows the trail to the open back door. From where she stands, she can see a lone figure standing on the deserted shore, hands in his pockets and shoes in the shade away from water's harm. She pulls on a light coat to brave the beach's breezes and leaves her sneakers in the house.

Sark turns when he hears the sound of sand crunching beneath her feet. She looks healthier since he last saw her. Her skin has a faint glow and her hair is thicker and longer, but her eyes are what he notices the most. He stares at her and sees no pain or regret, but apathy instead. He wonders if he's too late.

"I'm guessing that Sloane's recent death and your sudden appearance are related," she deduces as she hugs herself for warmth. He nods and runs his tongue over his dry lips.

"So you really did find a cottage by the shore," he says, glancing out towards the blue waves that lap along the sand.

"It cost a fortune," she replies, "but I got it."

A silence falls as another gust of wind blows, her hair brushing against his face.

"What are you doing here?" she asks, turning away to look at the water. He does the same and flexes his toes in the sand, grains wrapping around his feet and reminding him of childhood pleasures.

"I pursued a dream of mine," he says casually. He turns to look at her but her gaze remains focused on the ocean.

"And it took a year and a half?" she scoffs.

"Yes, well, surprisingly enough, taking apart organizations like the Covenant take some time," he sarcastically replies.

Sydney purses her lips and looks thoughtful in an effort to qualm the tears. She'd spent months preparing for this moment, if it were to ever happen, practicing what she'd say and how to tell him that he was useless to her. Her father and mother had tried intervening her, convincing her to enjoy the newfound freedom that she had. And only after a year's worth of waiting and ignorance had she finally accepted his absence.

"Sark, some things just aren't meant to be," she says, her voice peaking at the end of her statement. Forcing herself to remain composed, she averts her gaze from the waters and stares at his face.

It's different, lighter, thinner and new scars join the map that stretches across his profile. She refrains from touching him and tucks her hands deeper into her pockets. He turns to look at her with eyes that speak of silent horrors and a fear of rejection.

"Then I wasted quite a lot of time believing it was," he says, tangling his hands in her hair. He dips his head and kisses her lightly, the faintest brush of skin against skin, and she bites her tongue to keep from reacting.

"Why'd you do it? Why did you leave?" she asks, pressing her hands against his chest. She pushes him away and takes a step backwards, her resistance as strong as it'd been years ago.

"Your father would have killed me if he saw me touching you," he jokes, but Sydney remains grave.

"You son of a bitch—you show up at my home, demanding acceptance, and joke about it. I waited a year for you, a year for a sign, for anything that would let me know that that few hours together had ever existed, but I never got it. Don't stand there and try to make light of this because I find no aspect of this to be funny," she says as the tears suddenly leak from the corners of her eyes. She brushes them away and turns to leave.

"Sydney," he yells, his voice taught with a mixture of rage and self-control. "Do you want to know why I left?"

She stops walking because she's never heard him so angry before, shedding his cool and urbane exterior. She keeps her back faced to him as he explains.

"What the hell was I supposed to do, Sydney? Do you think it would have been simple avoiding the Covenant for the rest of our lives if I hadn't left? The plan was to pull you out of that system, not drag you back into it. I wasn't about to risk your life after saving it," he says. "If you want me to leave, Sydney, then just say it."

She turns to look at him with her softened expression, one hand pressed against her forehead and the other dangling lifelessly at her side. She waits until her throat loosens to speak again, pent up frustration bubbling over.

"You can't expect me to just accept you again after all this time!" she yells, wishing she had something to throw at him. "We can't just jump back to where we were before—but I don't want to start over."

He covers the distance between them slowly, walking past his shoes lodged deep in the sand and the sound of waves in the distance.

"Then let's start from the middle," he says. "I notice that you're missing a cook."

xXx

A week passes and she doesn't return for the red Calla Lilies. After the first bouquet dies, he optimistically replaces it, continuing this routine until a year passes, then two years, then three years. He eventually removes the lilies and relies on the newspaper for company, the frequent customer now a figment of the past.

            The sound of the bell's chime drags his attention away from the paper and to the young girl at the door. She isn't any older then six, but she has with her a wad of money and a slip of paper with directions written on it. She has long brown hair and dark blue eyes and shyly enters the shop. The florist must lean over the desk to see her.

            "Hello there," he says cheerfully, taking off his spectacles. She glances up at him and looks at the words scribbled on the piece of paper she carries.

            "Lilies," she responds. "Can I buy some lilies?"

            The florist raises a brow and glances out the window, but the street is empty.

            "What kind of lilies would you like?" he asks.

            "Red Calla Lilies," she says.

_Fin_.

Author's Notes: So finally we reach the end. Once again, I am not an expert at botany or the scenery in France. And having all the dialogue in French, I thought, would be good practice, but not everybody would understand. And I'd have to babelfish it and as we all know, babelfish cannot be trusted. This is how Potent ends and I didn't really put as much effort into the ending as I did to the beginning. This chapter, I thought, wasn't the best I could've written but I'm just absolutely burned out and since this was going to be the general gist of the ending any ways, I thought, hey, might as well update and get it over with instead of dragging it out and making it longer then it has to be. Thus, I bring you the end and I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did.


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